by Håkan Nesser
Bausen didn’t answer at first. Shrugged his shoulders, and shook his head.
“Signs,” he said eventually. “I don’t receive any signs... I’ve been standing here, waiting, for quite a long time, not just right now . . .”
“I know,” said Van Veeteren. “Perhaps... perhaps the absence of any is a sign in itself.”
Bausen raised his eyes.
“God’s silence?” He shuddered, and looked Van Veeteren in the eye. “I’m sorry about Moerk... have you released her?”
“Yes.”
“I needed somebody to explain everything to. Didn’t realize that before I took her, but that’s how it was. I never thought of killing her.”
“Of course not,” said Van Veeteren. “When did you gather that I’d caught on?”
Bausen hesitated.
“That last game of chess, perhaps. But I wasn’t sure—”
“Nor was I,” said Van Veeteren. “I had trouble finding a motive.”
“But you know now?”
“I think so. Kropke did a bit of research yesterday... what a disgusting mess.”
“Moerk knows all about it. You can ask her. I haven’t the strength to go through it all again. I’m so tired.”
Van Veeteren nodded.
“That telephone call yesterday . . .” said Bausen. “I wasn’t fooled; it was more a question of being polite, if you’ll excuse me?”
“No problem,” said Van Veeteren. “It was an opening gam-bit I’d made up myself.”
“More of an endgame,” said Bausen. “I thought it took you a bit long, even so...”
“My car broke down,” said Van Veeteren. “Shall we go?”
“Yes,” said Bausen. “Let’s.”
October 2
52
The beach was endless.
Van Veeteren paused and gazed out to sea. There were big waves, for once. A fresh wind was gathering strength, and on the horizon a dark cloud bank was growing more ominous. No doubt it would be raining by evening.
“I think we should go back now,” he said.
Münster nodded. They’d been walking for more than half an hour. Synn had promised a meal by three o’clock, and the children would no doubt need some cleaning up before they would be allowed at the table.
“Bart!” yelled Münster, waving. “We’re going back now!”
“All right!” shouted the six-year-old, completing his final attack on the enemy buried in the sand.
“I’m tired,” said Münster’s daughter. “Carry me!”
He lifted her onto his shoulders, and they started walking slowly back along the beach.
“How is he?” asked Münster when he felt that Marieke had fallen asleep and Bart was sufficiently far ahead.
“Not too bad,” said Van Veeteren. “He’s not that concerned about the future. The main thing is that he’s done what he had to do.”
“Did he want to be caught?”
“No, but it didn’t matter very much either. He was in an impossible position once Moerk started on his trail, of course.”
Münster thought for a moment.
“How many lines were there about Brigitte Bausen in the Melnik report, in fact?” he said. “There can’t have been all that much—”
“Exactly one page. About that year they were living together, that is. Her name was mentioned twice. Melnik had no idea, of course; not even he can know the names of every chief of police in the country. If he’d had a bit more time—Bausen, that is—he could have substituted another name instead of removing a whole page. If he had, he might have gotten away with it. But we were standing waiting for him, more or less, and for Christ’s sake, we were bound to have noticed that something funny was going on.”
Münster nodded.
“I find it hard to see that what he did was so dreadful,” he said. “Morally speaking, I mean—”
“Yes,” said Van Veeteren. “You might say that he had every right—maybe not to cut the heads off three people—but to do something about his enormous sorrow.”
He fumbled around in his pockets and produced a pack of cigarettes. Was forced to stop and cup his hand around the lighter before he could produce a flame.
“Enormous sorrow and enormous determination,” he said, “those are the main ingredients in this dish. Those are Moerk’s words, not mine, but they’re pretty good as a summary. Sorrow and determination—and necessity. The world we live in is not a nice place—but we’ve been aware of that for quite some time, haven’t we?”
They walked in silence for a while. Münster remembered something else Beate Moerk had said about her conversations with Bausen in the cellar.
Life imposes certain conditions upon us, she reported that he said. If we don’t accept the challenge, we become petrified.
We don’t have any real choice.
Petrified? Was that right? Was that really what it looked like—this vain battle against evil? Where the result, no matter how puny and unsuccessful it might turn out to be, was nevertheless the important thing; where only the deed itself, the principle, had any significance?
And the only reward was to avoid petrification. Only?
Perhaps that was enough.
But the lives of three people—?
“What do you think?” Van Veeteren interrupted his train of thought. “What punishment would you give him if it were up to you?”
“In the best of all worlds?”
“In the best of all worlds.”
“I don’t know,” said Münster. “What do you think?”
Van Veeteren considered for a while.
“Not easy,” he said. “Lock him up in the cellar, perhaps, like he did with Moerk. But in rather more humane conditions, of course—a lamp, some books... and a corkscrew.”
They fell silent again. Walked side by side down to the water’s edge and let their summaries sink in. The wind was growing stronger. It came in gusts, which you could almost lean into at times, Münster felt. Bart came running up with some new finds for his collection of stones. He off-loaded them into his father’s pockets and raced ahead again. When the low whitewashed cottage came into view once more, Van Veeteren cleared his throat.
“In any case,” he said, “he’s the most likable murderer I’ve ever come across. It’s not often you have an opportunity of mixing so much with them either—before you put them behind bars, that is.”
Münster looked up. There was a new tone in Van Veeteren’s voice, a totally surprising hint of self-irony. Something he’d never detected before, and could barely imagine. It was suddenly hard to hold back a smile.
“How did the chess go?” he asked.
“I won, of course,” said Van Veeteren. “What the hell do you think? It took some time, that’s all.”
A few hours later he went to the water’s edge one last time. He lit his last cigarette as well, and stood there all alone until it was finished, contemplating the agitated breakers rolling in toward the shore.
Things were breathing again. Both sky and sea—the same threatening gray-violet combination, the same irresistible force; and when he felt the first drop of rain in his hand, he turned his back on it all and made his way up toward his car.
Time to get away from here, he thought.
The curtain has fallen. The tragedy is over.
Exit Oedipus. Exit Van Veeteren.
He started the car. Switched on the headlights as darkness fell rapidly, and set off inland.
And yet, it might not be for good. Perhaps Kaalbringen would have the pleasure of entertaining his presence again...
For even retired Axmen must eventually be allowed time out on parole. And even the narrowest of leads at chess must allow a challenge.
What wouldn’t one do for a decent glass of wine?
Thought Detective Chief Inspector Van Veeteren as he started groping in the glove compartment for Penderecki.
A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Håkan Nesser was awarded the 1993 Swedish Crime Writers’ Academy Prize for new authors for his novel The Wide-Meshed Net; he received the best novel award in 1994 for Borkmann’s Point and in 1996 for Woman with a Birthmark. In 1999, he was awarded the Glass Key Award by the Crime Writers of Scandi-navia for the best crime novel of the year, Carambole. His novels have been published to acclaim in nine countries. Nesser was born in 1950 in Sweden, where he still lives.
A NOTE ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
Laurie Thompson taught Swedish at the University of Wales and was editor of Swedish Book Review from its launch in 1983 until 2002. He has been a full-time literary translator for several years and has translated nearly forty books from Swedish. He was born in York, but now lives in rural west Wales with several cats and a Swedish wife.
A NOTE ON THE TYPE
This book was set in Monotype Dante, a typeface designed by Giovanni Mardersteig (1892–1977). Conceived as a private type for the Officina Bodoni in Verona, Italy, Dante was originally cut only for hand composition by Charles Malin, the famous Parisian punch cutter, between 1946 and 1952. Its first use was in an edition of Boccaccio’s Trattatello in laude di Dante that appeared in 1954. The Monotype Corporation’s version of Dante followed in 1957. Although modeled on the Aldine type used for Pietro Car-dinal Bembo’s treatise De Aetna in 1495, Dante is a thoroughly modern interpretation of the venerable face.
Composed by Stratford Publishing Services, Brattleboro, Vermont
Designed by Virginia Tan
BORKMANN’S POINT1
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August 31–September 105
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September 10–2455
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September 24–27104
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September 27–October 1134
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October 2159
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A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR163
A NOTE ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR163
A NOTE ON THE TYPE163